Imagine Your Life
by moonlighten
Summary: 1295: Scotland and France prepare to seal their new alliance. (Scotland/France.) One-shot, complete. Part of the Feel the Fear series.


Sequel to How to Build (or, at least, the 13th century portions of it).

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1295; Kingdom of Scotland**

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Normally, Scotland does not retire to his bed until his body is so heavy with fatigue that he can no longer bear its weight in the hopes that it will then haul him down quickly enough into sleep that he is not wrenched instead into dreams.

He does not linger in it as he knows others do. He does not think of his bedchamber as a place of peace or repose. It is just another battlefield, albeit a quieter one than most, and thus he has never before entertained the idea that he would receive a visitor there, especially not one he has so long esteemed.

If he had, then he might not have told his servants there was no need for them to perform their usual tasks within it and that they should concentrate their efforts on helping with the preparations for the night's festivities in their stead.

The room has not been aired nor has a fire been laid in the hearth, and the air is stale and icy, stinking of old sweat and wet dog. Scotland traces the latter scent to his bed, where it appears at least one of his deerhounds had sought refuge from the bustle and din which had consumed the rest of the castle this day.

The rucked furs and sheets are still slightly damp to the touch, and littered with long, coarse grey hairs which cling to Scotland's hands when he tries to brush them away.

"Sorry," he says, wiping his fingers conscientiously – and, perhaps, a mite compulsively – against the front of his leine. "For the mess. It's not usually... I'm sorry."

"Don't concern yourself with it. We'll be making a mess of our own soon enough, no doubt," France says, his voice as warm and smooth as the wine they had shared.

Outside in the dark, where Scotland's body resonated with the fortifying pulse of his land and there was more alcohol than blood coursing through his veins, that low, rich tone had been all the encouragement he had needed. He'd taken very little heed of France's words, just their urgency, and they'd spurred him with such haste from field to bedchamber that he had not had the time to spare a single thought as to what France might expect after they arrived.

Now, with only cold stone underfoot, chilling his bones and dulling his magic, and the beguiling fog of intoxication already beginning to lift from his mind, he can't think of anything else, and it paralyses him. He stills so completely that he fancies that his heart itself must have stopped beating in his chest, too.

France sighs, long, slow and indulgent, and then reaches out to take loose hold of Scotland's wrist. "You were doing so well before," he says. "Try to stop thinking so hard. There's no need for it. You just need to keep trusting your instincts, believe me."

He gives Scotland's arm a gentle tug that's more invitation than demand, and like any other France has ever issued to him, Scotland cannot refuse it.

He allows himself to be eased forward until his shins strike against the side of the bedstead and his knees buckle, whereafter there's nowhere to go but down. He lands against the bed in an ungainly heap, one arm twisted at an awkward angle beneath his chest, the other held high above his head, still trapped in France's grip.

France follows him with a great deal more grace, hopping up onto the mattress with such a light step that it barely trembles below him. He settles himself, cross-legged, by Scotland's head before finally letting go of his wrist.

Freed from this meagre but nonetheless inescapable restraint, Scotland draws his legs underneath him and then pushes himself up onto his knees.

He had brought a but a single candle to light their passage through the castle, and set now atop a chest on the far side of the room, it scarcely stirs the darkness. Even though their faces are scant inches apart, France's is so deeply shadowed that Scotland can read nothing of his expression.

Judging by the sound of his breathing, however, he does not share Scotland's own anxiety at their new position. His exhalations are deep and regular, and they fan softly, wine-sweet and blood-hot, over Scotland's lips.

Unthinkingly, he runs his tongue over them. They feel rough, slightly chapped as they always are, and maybe a little bruised from their sojourn in the field earlier. His face heats at the memory. Although it is mere moments old, it still seems a distant one, somehow; belonging to someone who isn't quite him.

He feels no connection to that other Scotland, who opened his mouth so readily under France's and clutched tight hold to the front of the other kingdom's tunic with no care for the fine fabric or delicate embroidery. His hands are leaden now, curled impotently in his lap, and he cannot find the strength to raise them.

He has often thought about kissing France – whenever he smiles or laughs or pouts or grumbles or simply stands close enough that Scotland could touch him if he found the courage to do so – but not even in his dreams has he imagined that they might ever share a bed. Before tonight, he has never been given the barest hint of encouragement that France desired him in that way.

Although he has heard his people tell countless ribald stories, he still has only the vaguest idea of how he might bring pleasure to another man. As such things had held no great interest for him in the past, he did not pay them the attention that they, perhaps, deserved. That decision seems woefully short-sighted in retrospect, and he can only hope that France has been listening more conscientiously in his turn.

"I... I don't know what I'm doing," he says. His voice cracks on the last word, which serves to deepen his embarrassment at the admission.

A subdued rustle of fabric suggests France is shrugging. "You can just follow my lead."

He sounds so confident, so assured, that Scotland begins to suspect that his own knowledge might not be based entirely on hearsay and rumour.

"Have you.. Have you done this before?" he asks.

France chuckles almost soundlessly. "Once or twice," he says.

Whilst Scotland had never consciously thought that he might be France's first or his only, he realises with those words that he had assumed as much. They are of an age, more or less, and Scotland has never received anything more than a peck on the cheek from a human lass or two who had taken a fleeting fancy to him.

"Who—" he begins, but France cuts him off with a kiss that is both ardent and unexpected enough that it shocks Scotland into silence.

"Ah," he says as he draws away again, "that is a conversation that has no place in the bedchamber, _mon cher_."

"What should we be talking about, then?"

France laughs again. There's a slight edge of mockery to it that makes Scotland's skin prickle as though an icy wind has just blown over it. "We shouldn't really be talking at all," he says.

The hand he lays, open palmed, against Scotland's cheek feels scalding, heating his face so thoroughly that he forgets that momentary chill entirely. The brush of his thumb against the curves of Scotland's lower lip erases most of his nervousness, and the teasing dance of fingers at the neck of Scotland's leine robs him of the remainder.

"Show me," he says quietly; little more than a breath.

"Gladly," France says, falling onto his back and pulling Scotland down after him.


End file.
